The wind picked up with such speed that it cut off our conversation of how perfectly temperate the evening had been as we enjoyed the first few tastes from our carafe of wine – “we really lucked out.” The wooden restaurant sign dangling precariously from two bent hooks swung in gales quickly made visible by raindrops urgently traveling parallel to the asphalt, as if magnetics pushed and pulled in either direction and a field cleared horizontal to the earth with which the water could pass.

I leapt from my seat as plastic tables and chairs were swept from beneath us and carried on along the sidewalk, rushing to meet one another where a barrier would collect their bits and pieces.

Awnings protected our sidestep home just a few buildings down which we spent longer commuting towards than the amount of time it took for the entire village to lose power at the fracture of a single transformer. It was a small town in the Pyrenees with such a commonly minimal glow that with or without lights the same stars shown, but the magic began when candles flickered on and the stone streets lit with firelight cascading out of every other window.

We sat on the couch looking out of the balcony windows and watched the storm pass us by, listening to trees cracking on the mountains in front of us, and placing bets on how long the Garage Atelier’s faux front would remain with such proximity to the ferns dancing closer to the buildings than the trees were tall.

I lost myself in our tea lights restlessly resting on the wood floors and thought it’s funny that we should use the term “disconnecting” when we live without electricity. Does that mean that our original disconnect was not when we became so dependent on modern conveniences that we lost touch with what wonder nature has to offer, when we give it the chance to charm us?